by Eva Hudson
Shoot First
An Ingrid Skyberg Mystery
Eva Hudson
INKUBATOR BOOKS
Previously published under the same title by Two Pies Press (2014)
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
BELOW ZERO
FREE SKYBERG NOVELLA
Eva Hudson
Also by Eva Hudson
Rights Info
1
December 24th.
“Where are we going?”
“You’re not scared are you?”
Like she was going to admit it if she was. Dion swerved, taking the corner past Verhoeven’s Yard far too quickly, then accelerated down behind the warehouses that backed onto the river.
“This ain’t the way, D,” she said.
“It won’t take long. I promised Odell I wouldn’t turn up empty-handed.”
She looked across at him. “Really? You want to score? Down here?” They were surrounded by derelict buildings in territory owned by Sutcliffe’s people. All the street lights had been deliberately broken. “Lopez is going to blow your head off. Are you crazy?”
“Hey,” he held her eye contact far too long for someone in control of a moving vehicle, “it’s Christmas Eve. We’re going to a party, right?”
“Lopez not selling what you need these days?” She knew there’d be a helluva fight if Lopez found out D was buying off the Kings. “Why ain’t you buying from Lopez? Tell me.”
“Let’s just say me and him had a little falling-out.” Dion slowed the car and started looking carefully at the buildings. “It’s round here someplace.”
She shivered. It was five below zero and she was dressed to be indoors, in a nice warm house full of warm bodies drinking whiskey and rum, not in Dion’s dilapidated tin can with a hole in the floor. She should have waited for Nolan to pick her up, but her sister had wanted the place to herself. Maybe knowing she wasn’t going to wait around for him might make Nolan treat her with a bit more respect.
“See, I told ya. This is the place.”
She looked up at the warehouse just as a light on the second floor was switched off. “Really? You think that,” she pointed at the decaying hulk of a building, “is a good idea. You are one crazy sonofa—”
“Hey, you don’t gotta come in with me.”
“You ain’t leaving me out here on my own.” She opened the car door and placed her stiletto carefully in a patch of water, avoiding the crust of snow. She wasn’t even wearing pantyhose. “Don’t you dare run off,” she shouted. “You can damn well help me walk in these goddamn stupid shoes.”
“Why didn’t you just wear sneakers?”
“Like you say, we’re going to a party.”
They carefully crossed a junkyard where car parts were stacked to varying heights under an even capping of snow. She was hoping she might see something useful, something she could share with Nolan. Something she could use the next time she needed to trade. Dion pushed against a heavy curtain of PVC strips and they found themselves in what must have once been a kitchen. Or a slaughterhouse. Steel countertops, concrete floor, a bank of refrigerators with their doors hanging open. It wasn’t any warmer than Dion’s car.
“You sure about this?”
“Come on,” Dion said. “It’s down this way.”
“You been here before?”
“Vinny told me where to go.”
“So now Vinny’s buying from the Kings too?” There wasn’t going to be a fight; there was going to be a war.
She followed Dion down a wide corridor lit by a single bulb. Textured glass panels had been installed at ceiling height, but most were broken and shards and splinters crunched under their feet. A series of open doors revealed one abandoned office after the other, some still had furniture, most were empty.
“This ain’t a good idea, D.”
“Relax.” Dion was too laid-back for his own good. “This is how it works. They be watching us, making sure we not cops.” He turned back and looked at her, his head darkened against the white light of the bare bulb. “And if we cops, they got time to tidy up. See? It makes sense. This is how they do things. Smart people.”
This might be where they make it, she thought, but it sure as hell ain’t where they sell it. No way.
At the end of the corridor, Dion turned right. Down the hallway, light came through one of the high glass panels.
“Trust me now?” Dion asked.
“You do know that if anything happens to me Nolan will drop your dick into a meat grinder and then feed you the pie, right?”
“Nolan ain’t all that, you know.”
You won’t be thinking that when you’re eating dick pie. Dion was right though: Nolan wasn’t much, but Aurora hadn’t been invaded by an army of Ryan Goslings who knew how to treat a girl. She knew she could do better, and one day she promised herself she would. She’d get out of Aurora, out of Illinois, maybe start a business. Make something of herself.
She hung back. Dion knocked on the door beneath the illuminated glass.
“Hey, manito,” he said through the door, “you want to conduct a little transaction?”
There was no answer. Dion tried the handle: it was locked.
“Come on, D,” she said. “This is a stupid idea. Give me your money and I’ll buy what you want from Lopez. Let’s just get to Odell’s, OK?”
The boy didn’t want to lose face. “Nah. They’re here. They must be.”
At the end of the hallway was a pair of large oak doors with square windows of wired glass. They reminded her of high school, like the doors that led into the gym. A dim light crept through the glass.
“See, they’re in here,” Dion said.
She joined him at the doors and peered into a large machine room big enough to hide a church. About twenty yards inside the door were four men, two in beanie hats and snow gear, one in a suit, the fourth had a shaved scalp. It was Vinny. Had to be. No one else had an X-ray of a skull tattooed on the back of their head.
Vinny was working with the Kings? He was Sutcliffe’s guy now? She puffed out her cheeks in disbelief. Nolan and Lopez were going to have something to say about that.
The four men stood in a tight circle, arguing. The heavy doors blocked out the sound. Probably lead-lined or something. One of the men was holding a pistol, another some kind of machete. Her breath steamed up the glass. She wiped it away to see better.
“Maybe we sh
ould go,” Dion said quietly. “See Lopez, like you said.”
One of the men, the one in the suit, was Sutcliffe. She was absolutely sure of it. A sighting of Sutcliffe was the kind of information Nolan could use. Dion tugged at the collar of her mohair wrap, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the men on the other side of the door. She wanted to hear what they were saying. She leaned all her weight against the door, prying it open an inch. The men didn’t notice.
“Come on,” Dion whispered.
She raised a finger to her mouth and dared him to make a sound.
She could hear voices, but not actual words. Then a flash of light. A bang. One of the men dropped to the floor, clutching his knee.
“You fucker,” she heard him say. African accent. “You will fucking—”
The second bullet was aimed straight at his forehead. It took him a second or two to fall onto the concrete floor.
“Shit,” Dion said.
One of the men turned. “Who’s there?”
“Run,” she said to Dion, “run!”
He pelted away down the hallway, toward the corridor that led back to the kitchen. She followed but her stupid shoes meant she was slow, awkward. She wasn’t going to make it. She could hear footsteps from the other side of the door. She looked left. Right. She chose right, down another corridor lined with doors and high-level glass panels, into the shadowy darkness. She opened the first door she came to and stepped inside, closing it just as she heard the lead-lined doors slam shut.
Shit, shit, shit, shit. What a goddamned stupid thing to do. She stood with her back to the door, waiting for the sound of footsteps. Her heart was pumping like a dance floor. Even her fingertips were pulsating.
Voices out in the corridor. Then footsteps. Angry footsteps. She looked down at the door handle. Beneath it was a lock. There was a key in the lock. Was she imagining it? She stretched out a hand and tried the key. It was real and it moved. It clunked. Locked. Exhale.
She could hear movement in the corridor outside. Inhale. She felt someone standing on the other side of the door. The handle rattled, but the door didn’t open. The footsteps receded. More shouting. Much more shouting. Had they found D? Is that what they were saying? He wouldn’t spill, would he? He might. She was Nolan’s girl, after all. That might be useful to them.
She looked round the barely-lit room. Another abandoned office. Maybe the old payroll department, or personnel. She could make out two dust-covered metal desks attended by two metal chairs with rat-eaten upholstery. File cabinets. A broken clock on the wall. Nowhere to hide.
She was going to die in there. Either they were going to find her and shoot her. Or she was going to freeze to death. Her jaw started to tremble, then her teeth began to chatter.
She reached into her purse and curled her fingers around her cell. It was 9:35pm. She switched it to silent and worked out who she could call. Not Kate-Lynn; she’d made it clear she needed some space. Not Nolan; she couldn’t risk owing him anything. And besides, she didn’t trust him not to storm in and make things worse. Maybe D would come back for her? And maybe it was 105 degrees outside.
Footsteps rolled through the corridor like thunder.
“Where are they?” Sutcliffe’s voice. “Where the fuck are they?”
“It’s all right, I know who he is.” Vinny’s voice, all whiny and nasal. “Saw the car drive off. Dion. D. He’s no one. I’ll talk to him, straighten it all out.”
Blood pulsed in her ears.
“OK, you’re right.” Vinny’s voice again. “I’ll see to it.”
“I want to see the body,” Sutcliffe said. “I need to be sure. What about the girl?”
“What girl?”
“There was a girl with him. I saw her through the window.”
She pressed her hands against the door, trying to stop herself from slumping onto the floor.
“It’s OK, I’ll make him talk before I stop him talking, if you know what I mean.” Yes sir, sure sir, how high sir. Vinny wanted to impress his new boss. Probably had to. Was on some form of probation.
Silence.
“OK, OK. I’ll go now. I’m leaving already.”
“Shut this down, Vinny. Tonight.”
She heard Vinny run off. She couldn’t close her mouth and puffs of breath left her lips like cotton candy.
“What now, boss?” A voice she didn’t recognize.
“We get rid of the body.”
The next thing she heard was the heavy doors slamming. A few minutes after that, more footsteps, muttering. She waited. Five minutes. Ten.
Was that it? Had they gone?
She didn’t know what to do. Couldn’t think clearly. Too cold. What was better: open the door now, leave while they were off dumping the body somewhere; or wait? Surely Sutcliffe would send someone back with bleach and acid. Help me, someone. But there wasn’t anyone. Yet again she was on her own.
Deep breath. Sort it out. Make a decision.
It was too cold to wait. She could die in there. Decision made. Her fingers trembled as she turned the key in the lock. A clunk. No footsteps. She was too scared to step into the hallway. What if he was there with a baseball bat?
This is stupid. You can’t stay here.
She stepped out. It was deserted. Silent. Only the sound of her ridiculous shoes crunching on the floor. She had to keep one hand on the wall to support herself. It was hard to walk when you could barely breathe.
She made it to the kitchen. Still no one. A cold wind heaved at the PVC curtain. She looked out into the yard. Empty. She stepped outside. Was that snow? Just what she needed. She made it to the lane and looked back at the warehouse.
On the second floor, the light went back on silhouetting a figure at the window.
Shit.
She ran as fast as she could down the lane. She was leaving footprints in the snow. Footprints that would lead them right to her. She made it past Verhoeven’s. Onto the main drag. Christmas lights in every window. She glanced over her shoulder. No one had followed her. She looked again. Definitely no one on her tail. Exhale. She staggered through the slurry on the sidewalk, wondering how late the bus would run on Christmas Eve. She didn’t have the money for a cab.
The only places that were open were bars. It would be a few years before she could pass for twenty-one. She carried on walking, not sure if she should try and get to Odell’s, or whether she should go home and risk Kate-Lynn shouting at her.
What was that she could smell? Detergent? The laundromat on the other side of the road was open. There wasn’t much traffic, she didn’t wait for the lights. She pushed open the door into the moist, warm air. Exhale. The gentle hum of the machines against the Christmas songs dribbling out of the single speaker. It was open. It was warm. She stood in front of a dryer. She could thaw out. She could think. She needed to think.
She sat down on the wooden slatted bench and let her head fall into her hands. Fucking stupid Dion. She reached into her purse for her phone. She needed to call someone for help. She needed a plan. She scrolled through her contacts, desperately looking for someone who had a car and no plans on Christmas Eve. Someone who could get her away and keep her safe. She was going to have to disappear. Sutcliffe’s boys were going to come looking for her. She felt her throat tighten, like someone was wrapping barb wire around her neck.
She saw the name but didn’t instantly make the connection. She flicked through her contacts again and again, hoping to see someone who would come for her. Her heart was thumping and knowing there was only one person she could call made her blood feel thick, sluggish, making her heart beat harder. She scrolled to the name and paused. Other girls had gone the same way, had dialed the same number, so she knew it worked.
Was it too late to call? What was the time difference? Only one way to find out.
She heard the phone ring once, then twice.
“Nancy Gadd.” It was a nice voice. Friendly.
“Hi, you don’t know me but—”
“Honey, it’
s Christmas Eve. Can’t this wait until the new year?” There were the sounds of a party in the background.
“Please, you’ve got to help me.” She wiped away a tear. “I might be dead by then.”
2
Special Agent Ingrid Skyberg climbed carefully out of the black London taxi. The four-inch heels of her new shoes buckled slightly as she stood up: it was three more inches than she was used to. She pulled out a £20 note from her tiny black clutch bag and handed it to the driver.
“Keep the change,” she said.
“You sure?”
She knew her generosity made her look like just another American tourist, but the truth was she had selected the items in her clutch very carefully—a credit card, house keys, security pass, two cell phones, a penknife, her Oyster card and £100 in notes—and she didn’t want the loose change clanking around.
“You have a good evening,” the driver said and pulled away.
Before the cab had driven ten yards down the street, the paparazzi fired off a flurry of shots until they realized Ingrid was not the actress they thought she was. She rearranged the folds of her gray silk dress, brushed out the creases it had acquired during transit—how did attendees at the Oscars get to the Kodak auditorium without getting crumpled?—and crossed the street toward the gallery. An ear-piercing whistle made her stop as she reached the white dotted line in the middle of the road.